


Hot/Cold

by ThebanSacredBand



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Apollo and Hades are not nice, Body Horror, Character Study, Death, Don't copy to another site, I'm not really sure how to tag, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Misogyny, No Plot/Plotless, Suicidal Thoughts, Underworld, because ancient Greece be like that, but i just want to be on the safe side, like its very much implicit, or at least ideation of death, theres some fairly heavy stuff its just very vague, women as victims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/pseuds/ThebanSacredBand
Summary: Cassandra is always hot.Persephone is cold, so cold.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Hot/Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Mythology is a huge complex topic with various ways it can be validly interpreted. This particular work is very much showing Hades as a bad guy whom Persephone does not love, if you don't like it, don't read. (Same with Apollo but I feel there are less people who view him positively atm so I don't feel the need to state it so explicitly).

Cassandra is always hot. The sun beats on her back even when she is inside, even when it is night and he should be gone far away.

She can feel the skin peel off her neck with the heat and she screams for it, but no-one else can see the scars.

They talk about her like she is mad, like she cannot hear what they say. Poor Cassandra, lost her mind, seeing things that are not really there. Why can they not understand that sometimes the light is so bright that she cannot even bring herself to turn and look behind her?

She cried and cried about the heat, about the pain, and now no-one will believe anything she says. But she is never wrong.

She had only herself to blame, perhaps. He had come showering her with gifts that she had readily accepted, and then she had spurned him, again and again and again until he had cursed her for her hubris. He had given her the gift of looking forward, and the curse of not being able to look back.

She should have known not to anger a god. But she was young, in the ripe age of young adulthood where everything and anything is possible.

Back then her gifts were still new, precious and revealing. They had not yet shown her the horrors that angering the gods would do to her city.

She wishes now she had not complained of the heat and the bright white light. There are worse things still to come.

Sometimes the pain is so much she wanders around in a daze. She crumples to the ground and says that Troy will burn.

A sad voice with a Grecian accent says “I believe you”. Cassandra meets a pair of beautiful eyes, and screams and screams and screams.

This sad voice will bring only death and destruction and fire and _heat_.

At least, when she is dead, she will finally be cold.

Persephone is cold, so cold. It is always cold down here, without the sun. She is constantly shivering, with every shade, every spirit, every touch of the man she must call husband.

There are no days or nights, not as such. The Sun cannot shine his rays beneath the earth to the realm below. The Sun prefers to chase the living.

But yet, there are days, and there are nights. Days are when there is shouting in the courts, and Persephone sits at her loom and tries not to hear them. Their voices grind against her bones, like they’re are right behind her. She is constantly looking over her shoulder, jumping, only to find herself staring at the plants that grow and yet do not.

The pomegranates are always ripe and look like the hearts of the dead men that she sees being pulled apart by furies when she dares look beyond the walls. They taunt her.

Nights are when she looks over her shoulder and finds a thin spectre of a man standing behind her, his eyes as dead as those he rules. Nights are when he clasps her shoulder in his skeletal hand and guides her away.

Nights are worse than days.

His hands are so so cold.

When her friends talked about what love was going to be like, this was not it. Love was supposed to be warm touches and warm hearts. Not this.

Not this.

At night she thinks that the rest of her existence will only be cold.

At least in the days she can look at the plants that do not live and remind herself of those that do. At least in the days she can think about how this is only for the next few months, and then she will be warm again.


End file.
